He watched from afar, pale flesh covered in silk
caught in the shadows of the frigid night.
Oh, she walked with the grace of noble blood,
her cloak fluttering behind, haunting him,
hiding the curves of her slender from.
“Come to me,” said a voice on the wind, softly,
and slowly, like a siren’s seductive call.
He stalked the maiden, his eyes never roaming,
from the nape which he desired. She never turned,
keeping to her meandering strides. When he
drew closer, her pulse raced beneath her skin,
a torturous invitation of pleasure and pain.
“Come to me.” Yes, this beauty was luring him,
daring him, to leave the safety of the night.
He approached from behind, the lamplights
flickering flame bathing the stone walk,
ebbed to a glowing wick ember. She paused,
her breath caught in her throat and tightened,
preparing for what she secretly wished.
“Take me,” her whispering voice commanded,
as she cast away the locks from her shoulder.
He gripped her body and drew her close,
catching the scent of rose on her skin.
His tongue prepared the flesh for his mark,
and she bent to his will, quivering soundlessly,
as she met his eyes and exposed her intent.
“Make me,” she begged with such perversity,
he shuddered once then claimed his prize.